* * *
With the headlights off, Tun and his comrades eased their car slowly off the ferry to the makeshift landing on the other side of the abandoned bridge. They turned right and drove south for about two kilometers until they came to a throng of open-air huts on stilts at the river’s edge, reached by bamboo walkways. During peacetime, this outdoor yet secluded eating place, frequented by young lovers, would be open from early evening to the small hours of the morning, but the fear of monsoon floods and mortar shells had left it mostly empty, abandoned. Under the moonlight, it appeared like a ghost settlement awaiting some impending arrival, an exodus from the world of the living.
Tun and his comrades got out of the Peugeot, locked the doors, and threw the key into the marsh below. Hopefully, by the time someone noticed the ditched vehicle and pried the doors open, they would’ve already been long gone, their path untraceable. They’d chosen a good month to journey, despite the worsening road conditions, the ground muddy and puddled with craters of rain. During monsoon season, particularly in July or August when the rain began to intensify, fighting between revolutionary forces and government troops occurred less frequently, with each side waiting for respite from the deluge to launch their attacks. On a night like this, impregnated with the possibility of a heavy downpour, the only battles were distant ones, episodically flaring the night sky with a muted glow. In the momentary quiet, one could almost believe peace was possible, imminent.
The four comrades walked back in the direction they’d just driven, weaving through the interstices of trees, their silhouettes camouflaged in the surrounding shadows, their path lit by only the moon and stars, which appeared even brighter above the darkness of the peninsula, most of it yet to be electrified. Somewhere in one of the bigger trees an owl hooted, and every time they passed a bamboo thicket, one cicada would chirp and then a whole throng would follow in a deafening symphony, as if colluding to hide the sound of their footsteps, abetting their escape. Fully aware of possible buried mines, they stuck to the routes they had carefully cased out and mapped with the help of their comrades based in clandestine cells on the peninsula. Through the dense woods, away from houses and busy roads, they risked only contact with poisonous plants and wild animals. At one point, Comrade Nuon let out a surprised shriek and promptly silenced herself with a hand over her mouth. “I think a snake just slithered across my feet,” she said, by way of apology, looking embarrassed. Tun felt something bulbous and slimy—a snail most likely—clinging to the strap of his left sandal. He shook it loose.
As they proceeded, he offered his arm to Comrade Nuon, and she took it without hesitation, pressing close to him when something startled her—a branch falling in the stillness around them, a human-shaped shadow that seemed too large to be human, the meow of a kitten in the middle of nowhere. She was a young bride, following her husband, who had gone underground six months earlier, shortly after their marriage. Both had been civil engineering students, drawn to the promise that in the new Cambodia they would be able to use their education to serve the common good, designing dikes and dams that would allow for rice planting all year round.
Tun had never met Comrade Nuon’s husband and yet he felt envious of the man, wondering what it was like to be loved by a woman who, even without full knowledge of where her husband was based, would give up everything to follow him into the forest. Would Channara have made such a sacrifice? Would she have blindly followed him anywhere? Left her privileged diplomatic life in Washington, DC, to join him as a penniless student returning to Cambodia those many years ago? You’ll never know now, will you? he chastised himself. You never gave her the chance to consider such a choice.
He’d left America without so much as a note to her, simply vanishing, as he’d been instructed to do. There is no future for you here, Le Conseiller had said to him over the telephone, speaking in the even tone of those assured in their words, their power. If you wish to have a future at all, you will return home for your father’s funeral, and you will remain, give up your studies in America. I’m giving you a graceful exit from your folly. You will not say a word. You will simply vanish from her life. The senior diplomat had refrained from mentioning Channara’s name in his directive, as if it would defile his daughter by uttering it in the same breath he’d spoken Tun’s name. A year later, on Channara’s wedding day, standing in her room as she accused him of breaking her heart, Tun could not bring himself to tell her the reason for his silence without revealing the mute cowardice with which he had submitted to her father’s demand. Even if she could forgive him for the cowardly way he’d ended their love, by then it was already too late, for she had decided on someone more deserving of her respect, a doctoral student of music at one of the universities in Washington, DC, another Cambodian who had arrived in the American capital in the fall of 1960—a year before Tun—under the auspices of Her Majesty Queen Kossamak, Cambodia’s preeminent patron of the arts. Aung Sokhon, though from a humble background like Tun, possessed the serious courage of a true artist, who dared to push not only the boundary of music but that of love, trespassing class barriers and defying fearsome statesmen, to ask Channara’s father for her hand in marriage.
Tun could only imagine how thoroughly Sokhon must’ve impressed Le Conseiller for such a union to even be considered. A less brave man would have been reduced to nothing, his future ruined before it began. During his brief sojourn in America, Tun had met Sokhon once, and though it was only in passing at an embassy function, it was clear that this reserved, contemplative young scholar, whose musical talents surpassed those of any other Cambodian musician of their generation, possessed an enormous sense of purpose as he cut through a room full of diplomats and dignitaries to greet the Cambodian ambassador and impress upon the attending throng the necessity for those who called themselves “envoys of culture” to respect the culture they purported to represent. Your Excellency must offer a platform where artists could perform with dignity. A venue does not make a stage, Sokhon had said, alluding to the numerous occasions when musicians like himself and Tun had had to play during an embassy dinner, amidst the din of the meal itself, their beautifully crafted melodies lost to the clatters of knives and forks, the cacophony of competing conversations. If we do not stop to listen to our own music, how can we expect the foreigners to? There was a sudden hush among those who had heard Sokhon’s incisive words, and for a moment the Cambodian ambassador looked as if he was considering putting Sokhon in his place, but, to the relief of the crowd, he responded affably, You are right, of course, you are absolutely right.
During the entire exchange, Tun noted, Sokhon’s composure never once flickered, as if the young scholar were standing inside an impermeable bubble. Tun realized in that moment Sokhon would become someone important, for he possessed that unassailable sense of self and vision so necessary in the pursuit of art. To a man like Sokhon, there were no boundaries, except those he drew around himself to protect his dignity and ability to create.
Tun did not have Sokhon’s inviolability or courage. At times he wondered if his decision to leave, to take sides in the war, was a mislaid attempt to rectify his own failure of character. He had been unable to stand up to Le Conseiller, a weakness that had cost him the only woman he had ever loved—would ever love—and now he was taking a stance against all the injustices of his society, against the cruel tyranny of a class to which a man like Le Conseiller belonged.
* * *
The four comrades had reached an intersection between a temple and another ferry dock, smaller than the ones by the bridge, and quickly turned left to avoid exposure on the open road. Finding the narrow footpath they’d noted during their reconnaissance visit, they slipped into it single file, like ants into a crack, moving in sequence through untamed woods and carefully cultivated orchards. Last in the queue—with Comrade Nuon and the other two men a meter or so ahead of him—Tun had the complete solitude to examine the course he had traveled these past years. He searched his memory for overlooked opp
ortunities, possible second chances.
During Channara’s visit to his apartment that day after their chance encounter at Chaktomuk, Tun could hardly resist the desire to take her into his room and make love to her. If Suteera had not been with them, he might’ve found the mad courage to do just that, for in that mined, embattled geography of his heart, she was never his songsa but his wife. You should’ve married me, he wanted to tell her. You should’ve been my wife. Channara must have felt his insanity for she suddenly brought Sokhon into the conversation, mentioning how her husband had finally received his doctorate in musicology and was now teaching at the University of Phnom Penh, as well as holding an advisory post in the Ministry of Culture. Tun felt a jab of regret, remembering his abandoned studies, his unrealized dreams. Channara, conscious of what she had done, mumbled an apology, explaining she hadn’t meant anything by it. Oh, la bonté, regardez l’heure! Où est passé l’après-midi? She took the opportunity then to say good-bye. Au revoir, monsieur, Suteera murmured solemnly, echoing her mother, who had suddenly chosen to speak in a foreign tongue, as if this would somehow make their farewell seem less intimate. Tun could only offer a silent nod in return. That was the last time he’d seen Channara.
Second chances, he realized now, favor the brave. The four had reached Al-Azhar Mosque on the eastern shore of Chruay Chongvar. A shadow emerged from the thicket of banana trees across the road and introduced himself as their “comrade in the movement.” There was no exchange of aliases, for aliases were numerous and deciduous as leaves. The young revolutionary, who looked to be in his early twenties, examined their clothing and, judging the simple cotton pants and shirts—peasant clothes—to be appropriate for the journey, handed the men each an embroidered skullcap and Comrade Nuon a white cotton head scarf. “Just in case,” he said, and they understood this to mean that when necessary they would put on the head wear and pretend to be Cham fisher folk. It was an effective disguise, as fishermen traversed the river at all hours, and Chams were not usually suspected of being Communists. Those who joined the underground movement, like the young comrade before them, felt that for too long their people were pushed to the periphery, their history and culture effaced, and now, with talk of revolution and a just, egalitarian society emerging from the chaos, saw the opportunity to play a more central role. But the recent attacks on their religion from within the movement, particularly the ban on praying five times a day, had led to numerous defections and kept countless other Chams away.
Nodding for them to follow, the young revolutionary ducked back into the banana thicket and led them down an incline to a long canoe covered and hidden beneath the curve of a mangrove, whose twisted roots were partly swallowed by the rising water from the monsoon. An old fisherman stepped forward, blinking at their tilted silhouettes on uneven ground, and, recognizing the young Cham, beckoned them onto the canoe. Tun sensed the old fisherman was not one of them, not a Communist, but someone sympathetic to their cause. The two Muslims exchanged greetings, Salaamu alaikum, Alaikum es-salaam. An alliteration of goodwill and wishes, Tun heard in the emotion, the words foreign to his ears. Then, with nothing more said, the old fisherman took to the oars and, slowly, they glided from under the shadow of the mangrove out onto the open water, its smooth surface illuminated by the heavens and the intermittent flares of distant explosions.
Tun kept his eyes on the peninsula, peaceful and seemingly unreachable as another world despite its nearness. Through a clearing he glimpsed the minaret of Al-Azhar Mosque, the carved crescent moon cradling the star at the top, in the aureole of the real moon, full and encompassing. A dream, he told himself. He’d journeyed into a landscape that harbored not one moon but two, where a self could exist both as a fragmented sliver and as a complete whole, not contradictions but inverted reflections of the same truth. Yes, it was possible to love someone and at the same time let her go. First Channara. Now his daughter. He thought of her curled up in her bed, her body embracing sleep. Sita . . . my soul, my shattered self.
Teera hears a familiar, playful beep-beep from a motorcycle and spots Narunn among the crowds, waving to her from the back of his black Honda Nighthawk. She recognizes him even with his face hidden inside his helmet. They have agreed to meet at the pavilion and will later choose a restaurant nearby for dinner. He wedges the Nighthawk—the one extravagance in his otherwise self-deprived existence—into a space between two parked cars, alights from his seat, secures his helmet to the handlebar next to the spare one he always carries, and strolls toward the pavilion.
“Oun,” he greets, hand smoothing his hair into place, eyes luminous as if drawing light from the silvery strands at his temples.
Oun. As always, her heart flutters at the word. Its familial tenderness, its shy intimations. Little Sister. Darling. Wife. You peel away the concentric layers of meaning and find your place in its folds. And the way Narunn says it—in its breathless wholeness as if the sentiment is vastly larger than the word can ever contain—makes Teera feel she is all these.
“I drove by a bit earlier, honked and waved,” Narunn tells her, “but you seemed completely preoccupied with a little boy. My competition, perhaps?”
She shrugs noncommittally.
“Anyway, I went around the block several times, until a space opened up to park. Didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”
Teera does not tell him that she came a good bit earlier than planned, hoping that by walking around the riverfront she would remember more of the scene with her parents that had flashed across her mind several days ago when she was with Narunn at his apartment. Instead she blurts out—“I think the boy has cancer! Or something grave like that. He just has that look, like he’s never going to get better, and he knows it, and his mother knows it. I think they’re important, powerful people. Certainly very wealthy.” Confusion furrows her brow. “But they seemed utterly at the mercy of fortune, or in this case, misfortune. Oun anet,” she adds guiltily.
Narunn inclines his head a bit, looks at her, smiles. “You feel for everyone.”
“Shouldn’t I?” she murmurs, somewhat to herself, her heart pulled in a conflict of empathy. “Is it wrong?”
“Why?—Because they are rich?”
“I don’t know.”
“In a place like this,” Narunn says, surreptitiously hooking his little finger into hers, “illness seems the only constant democracy. It affects everyone the same way. And in the absence of reason—when we don’t know how or why one is afflicted, or what’s the cure—compassion is the only appropriate response.”
They stand now side by side, their gazes on a dinner-cruise boat gliding downstream, his small finger swinging hers. She’s been careful not to touch him in public, conscious of tradition, how they’d be perceived. Yet, she can’t look at him without feeling a surge of desire, this ever-growing belief that she is meant to love him, he who shares her history, who understands her loss and yet carries his wisdom with such levity that his nearness makes her feel she can rise above any sorrow.
“Are you sure you’re a doctor, and not a monk?” she says after a moment, keeping a straight face, her gaze still on the water.
“I told you I was an impostor.” He takes full hold of her hand and pulls her toward the side entrance of the pavilion, as if suddenly forgetting their age, the restraint they’ve tried so hard to maintain. “Come—let’s get some juice!”
They cross the street to a row of carts selling fruits and drinks at the corner of the grassy park directly opposite the Royal Palace. All the vendors seem to know Narunn, greeting him with warmth and affection. “Ah, we thought you’d given up on the rest of us and joined the sangha for good.” He is their brother, their nephew, their son. “Can’t you see he’s married now?” Eyes wide, Teera turns to Narunn, expecting him to correct their mistaken assumption, and when he doesn’t, looking as mischievous as they are, she reddens.
Noticing this, the coconut vendor, with limbs as sinewy and brown as coconut trunks, intercepts: “Who will you make r
ich today?” Narunn chuckles. “I believe you are the lucky man, uncle. Two coconuts, please.” He looks to Teera for confirmation; she nods, grateful for the change of subject. The vendor pulls out the smallest pair hidden beneath a pile of young green fruits, expertly slices the tops off with his cleaver, plunges a fat straw inside each, and hands them to Teera and Narunn. “Dwarf coconuts, you remember?” he says, sensing Teera’s forgetfulness, her time away from this land, which they all seem to have guessed. “The last two from my tree this season.” Teera takes a sip, eyebrow raised when the intensity of the sweetness hits her. She nods. Yes, I remember now. And just as she thinks this, she recalls a similar scene from childhood of her drinking juice from a banana-leaf cone on a busy street corner. Something citrusy tickles her nostrils. Is it an actual orange she smells? Or a memory? She takes another sip from the coconut. Waits . . . but nothing.
Narunn tries to pay, but the vendor won’t hear of it. “My treat today,” he says, with a toothless grin to Teera. “See, you’ve brought me luck already,” Narunn tells her.
They thank the coconut vendor, and as they turn to leave, a young man in a wooden wheelchair rolls toward them. “Vichet!” Narunn greets. “How are you?—Would you like a coconut?—Or some other fruits, perhaps?” The young man shakes his head, laughing, his eyes soulful, melancholy, despite his youth and outward cheerfulness. “Thank you, but I just want to say hello to your wife.” Teera opens her mouth to correct him, but Narunn exclaims, “It has been a while since we last saw each other!” He turns to Teera, gesturing at the young man’s collection of grasshoppers made from woven palm leaves bobbing on sticks as thin as wires. “Oun, Vichet is an excellent craftsman. You can give him straw and he’ll turn it into something wonderful.” The young man blushes and, taking a grasshopper from the bamboo column tied to the front of his wheelchair, gives it to Teera. “May I pay for this?” she asks. Vichet shakes his head—“That one is not for sale.” Their gazes meet for a second, and then he looks away, seeming suddenly conscious of the short stumps that are left of his legs. “Vichet works for an organization that trains the disabled to make traditional handicrafts,” Narunn explains, obviously proud. “His grasshoppers are quite popular among tourists. Perfect traveling companions. The grasshoppers, I mean. Not the tourists.”
Music of the Ghosts Page 19
